"Tom? This a bad time?"
He shook his head, reflexively courteous. The truth was, he was longing to leave. By Friday afternoons, he was always running on empty.
"Hey Katelyn. What can I do for you?"
She shut the door behind her, walked across, and took a chair. His heart sank.
"I'm sorry to bother you so late in the day," she said, "but Mr Wachynski asked me to get this file to you in person. It's a bit of a delicate situation, you see, it has to be in the strictest confidence."
"Delicate?" he said warily.
Katelyn was head of HR. The last time she'd done this - closed the door, sat down, mentioned that word - he'd had to discipline a programmer for perpetual tardiness. He'd been hard put to it not to tell the kid the job was a joke, and he should focus his energies somewhere more productive.
She smiled. "Don't worry, nothing disciplinary. In fact it's kind of sad, actually. We had this new hire back in the summer - brilliant senior programmer, worked on classified government projects in DC, grad school at MIT and Berkeley. Just a fantastic candidate. The references are extraordinary; some very big names, and all of them loathe to lose her. We don't know why she wanted to come here at all, quite frankly - she just said personal reasons; time for a change, a better work/life balance. Nobody was inclined to argue, as you can imagine."
He felt time slow down around him. "She?"
"I know, right? And that was another factor in how excited the board were. It's such great PR, having a woman programming at that level, and there aren't many who can. But then there was this terrible accident, the day before she was due to start." She sighed. "DUI. Some guy with a truck. At an intersection. Not a thing she could have done, apparently - was all him. Head-on collision."
"A truck?" he repeated stupidly. He couldn't think.
"Mmm, terrible thing. She was really badly smashed up. Apparently they weren't hopeful she'd even live for the first few days. She technically died for a couple minutes, according to the records she's supplied here," she indicated the file between them on the desk, "but they restarted her heart somehow. She was lucky. She was just two minutes to the Memorial Faith."
"Sounds like the only piece of luck she had," he said.
"Absolutely. Seems she suffered brain damage, poor girl. Just tragic, especially with someone that gifted."
"Brain damage?" His heart was suddenly in his throat. "What do you mean?"
"Memory loss, is all they're sure about. There was some aphasia, but that seems to have passed. But they can't set her up as a senior now, at least not until they've monitored her performance and seen what's going on with her - but they don't want to risk losing her, either. She's quite exceptional, apparently. Well worth the investment if she can just get back in the game."
"Why are you telling me?" he asked. "I mean, she's my level. If she's meant to be a senior. This isn't my business to know, surely?"
"They're creating an interim role for her. Her duties won't be different to a junior programmer, at least to start with, but they're calling it a Special Program Services role. She gets a demi-office, not a cube. And while they don't want you to supervise, they do want to know how she's getting on. Any improvements, deterioration, problematic oversights. Monitor how she's performing." She hesitated. "Especially if she's in any way erratic. If you understand me."
"Check her work. Make sure she doesn't screw up for a client. Gauge how much damage was done, if any. But don't let her know it?"
She smiled, relieved. "Exactly. It's delicate, as I said. We don't want to offend her."
"Yeah," Neo said, remembering the rare occasions he'd seen her genuinely angry. "I can understand that."
She hesitated, before venturing, "Honestly, Tom? I don't want her feelings hurt either. She's been through a lot. And I figured you'd be understanding of her situation."
"Yeah. I will be." He didn't know what else to say.
"Like I say, they're anxious to retain her - the medics are hopeful of a full recovery. The reports she's had sent through are highly confidential, obviously..."
"I wouldn't tell anyone this stuff. Not my story to tell. And I appreciate it's confidential."
She nodded, relieved. "Yeah, I told Mr W you were the guy. For the job, I mean. It had to be one of the seniors capable of assessing her work. She's too advanced for that to be many."
"Well. Thank you."
He didn't process the rest of the small talk before she left; just responded with automatic politeness. He was focused entirely on the black concertina file before him; the first real, detailed information on Trinity he'd had access to in weeks. As soon as she left, he tore it open and pulled out the paperwork.
The photo startled him most. It wasn't real, of course. It was strange, this person who was Trinity, and yet not Trinity at all. Her expression was familiar - set mouth, tensed jaw, level gaze - and all wrong, in context. She wore civilian clothes with loose, ungelled hair, and no sunglasses. It was unsettling. The demarcation had always been so absolute - and now his warm, sensitive lover, and the ruthlessly capable, aggressive soldier, had somehow morphed into one image.
He found himself wondering who, exactly, she'd be here. That had been his greatest anxiety, right from the start. That the brain damage would have changed her; that the Trinity he so desperately missed would no longer exist at all. He knew it wouldn't alter his love for her. Nothing could do that, not after all they'd shared, all she'd done for him, everything they'd been to one another. But it would break his heart, just the same. And the hospital reports he leafed through - showing huge gaps in memory, and, far worse, occasionally erratic cognitive function - were useless. He had no idea if they were accurate and reflective of damage, or just glitches with the false memory uploads.
The one thing that consoled him was the resume. The machines had really gone to town in an effort to explain her skills and experience. She had the most gilt-edged employment history imaginable, plus grad school accolades that would ensure absolute respect from her peers. The fact they'd created such a startlingly impressive cover story reassured him: it implied a need to explain a startlingly impressive level of skill.
When he finally reached her SAT scores and basic data, he started to feel awkward. This stuff was probably more than just cover. This stuff, he suspected, was real - or at least, she'd believed it to be, at the time. It was personal.
He hated her name. Alice, for God's sake. No wonder she was known by her surname - Mackenzie, apparently.
She'd never told him anything of her Matrix self. He'd never asked. It hadn't mattered. Her birthday was the day she'd been freed; her name was the one she'd chosen; her home was Zion; her workplace the Neb. It felt somehow prurient, intrusive - creepy - to be reading this without her knowledge. And then he suddenly remembered: lying in their Zion bed, Trinity in his arms, hearing of endless nights before the Matrix feed. While an oblivious Thomas Anderson went about his life, unaware that he was being watched. Watched by a woman who'd read every file on him that ever existed, who knew more about him than he did about himself. Knew more about everything than he did, in fact. And he'd never felt betrayed by it. In fact he'd felt watched over, protected.
I guess this makes us even.
He smiled, and put a finger to her digitized face.
She didn't recognize him at all.
She'd shaken his hand firmly, then accepted the chair opposite and sat, coolly appraising him, as he'd gazed impassively back.
"I've seen your resume," he said. "It's very impressive."
"Thank you."
"I hope you won't be too bored."
"I'm just glad to be back. Working, I mean."
"Yeah. I heard about the accident. I'm sorry."
"Me too," she said. Her face was expressionless.
"So. I understand that you're going to be in this role for a short while, so you have a chance to, uh..."
"Complete my probationary period?"
"I wouldn't call it that," he said.
She smiled slightly. "No, I know. But that doesn't alter the facts." She nodded towards the disk before him. "That the brief?"
"Yeah. I thought we could run through it this morning over coffee, discuss how you want to attack it."
"If it's okay with you, I'd rather take it away, have a look, and then mail my proposals. I work better that way. More efficient." He was silent, trying to hide the bitter disappointment, and she frowned. "Look, I won't do a thing without sending it over first. You don't need to concern yourself with that. And I'm sure you've got a lot to do."
"I thought it might help. You know, two heads and all that."
She looked at him, her eyes clear. "You have to check my work. I appreciate the necessity. I'm not about to pretend that you have a choice, or even that the board do. I'm brain injured. And nobody can know how badly, not even me. So please, let me discover my limitations in my own time, in my own way, and then we can assess what we do with that information, once we have it."
He stared at her, at a loss for words. A wave of huge relief hit him as he took this in - the intelligence, the honesty, the faith in her own judgement. The ability to look a brutal reality in the face with nothing but lucid, quiet courage.
"Sure," he said at last. "But for what it's worth, I think your limitations will be pretty much what they always were."
She raised an eyebrow. "Thank you," she said. Her face was impassive, but he knew that expression too well to be fooled. "I hope your faith is justified."
"Call it an educated guess," he said, his voice quiet.
Their eyes met, and there was silence for a moment. Then he stood up and abruptly turned away to the window, furious with himself. He'd been in her company less than ten minutes, and already he was crossing the line. The Oracle was right - the connection was too damn strong.
"Okay," he said, tone brisk, "you know how you work best, so we'll go with that. I'll take you to your office, so you can make a start." He moved to the door and held it open. "You're in with someone called Zach. You can ask him if you need anything. He's..." he hesitated. "I just figured you'd get along."
"Reassuring," she said, as she followed him out of the office, and over to the elevator.
He hit the elevator button. "Reassuring?"
She looked at him briefly, and then did a slight double-take. He remembered that, from the very early days on the Neb. It was so swift as to be almost imperceptible, but he knew what it meant. She'd told him herself. Every time she'd seen him, she said, she'd had to look twice, just to make sure. He'd asked, what about? But she hadn't answered him directly. She'd just kissed him instead.
"Reassuring," he said again. "Why?"
"It's nothing."
"Then indulge me."
She looked at him again, as though assessing her next move. Then she shrugged a little. "When starting a job, I'm yet to be told that my manager wants to incinerate a co-worker. Or that I'll hate them." The elevator pinged, and the doors parted. As she stepped out, she added gravely, over her shoulder, "On the first day, that is. Those revelations take at least a week."